Chapter Text
February, 2013
Shane dimly registered that one of his teammates was talking about Boston’s Captain. “Did you know about Rozanov?” Jean-Jacques Dagenais was asking when Shane looked up at him.
“No,” Shane said. He was dressed in his compression shirt and pants, and had been bent over on the bench, tying up his skates. “What about Rozanov?” Maybe the curly-haired Russian was injured? His last game had been against Toronto and though he’d dropped his gloves over whatever bullshit Kent was spewing this week, the refs had pulled them apart before -
“He is bisexual,” J.J. said, accenting the wrong syllables with his thick Québécois accent. “No, is true!” he insisted when some of the other guys started to object. “He posted on social media just now, look.” He passed over his phone, which was, sure enough, open to a tweet from @ilyaroz81: a photo of a shirtless Rozanov, smoking and smirking, with the caption Officially open to applications, only hotties pls #bisexual #yesreally #stillnumberone 🩷💜💙 🏒🫦
Shane’s grip tightened on J.J.’s phone while the room exploded around him. He let the sound blend together in a wall that isolated him from the rest of the world while he focused on what mattered. Ilya Rozanov was famous for his astoundingly good hockey, biting chirps that got under everyone’s skin, and ability to get photographed with a different woman every time he went out to a club. Sometimes two. (Occasionally, three, but Shane told himself that kind of greed wouldn't be sustainable once they got closer to playoffs.) The photos always made him angry. They were, if he was being honest with himself, the biggest reason he avoided going on social media himself. It wasn’t that he was jealous of Rozanov, off the ice, but he definitely felt a certain way about seeing the man’s sexual appetites splashed all over the internet.
If he was being honest with himself…
“I don’t get why he would do that,” Hayden was saying. Shane looked up, trying to guess the context of the conversation. “We all thought he was straight, right? He didn’t have to come out.” So, they were still talking about Rozanov.
“Dude was drowning in pussy,” Comeau said, waving his arms around. “Top tier. No way I’m giving that up.”
“Dude,” Shane said, “you’re married.”
Comeau shrugged. “He has to be extra gay if he’s risking his roster like that, is all I’m saying.”
Several of the guys groaned at that, and a side argument broke out about the risk vs reward of coming out when you still fuck women. Then another group started arguing that Rozanov couldn’t be bringing women home for real if he was gay now. Shane wanted to point out that bisexual and gay weren’t the same thing, but he kept his mouth shut.
“He can’t go back to Russia now,” Andropov said, which brought the room down for a moment. “The law passed last year.” Andy was a US citizen thanks to being born in Michigan but his father was Russian and he visited his grandparents in the old country every summer. Shane remembered then that Rozanov went back to Russia every summer too, or he did, before now. Probably not this year, if Andy was right. He opened Google to check which laws Andy was talking about, realized he still had J.J.’s phone, handed it back then went looking for his own.
“Raiders are probably freaking out right now,” Drapeau said from across the room. “Shit, I gotta text Koslov, that knowledge should absolutely have been dropped in the goalie chat.”
“You’re friends with their goalie?” Shane asked.
Drapeau shrugged. “Goalie chat,” he said, as if that was answer enough.
“Can you get me Rozanov’s number?”
There was a pause as the rest of his teammates realized what Shane had asked. The room went quiet. Hayden leaned forward, his blue eyes bright as he slowly grinned. “You gonna ask Rozanov out there, buddy?”
“No, I uh,” Shane started to say. He paused, looking around at his teammates. His brothers. Guys he’d roomed with in hotels and picked up from bars and stood next to in wedding photos. If he was being honest… but what he said instead was, “I just want to check in, make sure he’s doing okay with all this. Captain to Captain, you know?”
“You are a better man than me, Capitaine,” J.J. said with a laugh.
“Ice in five!” someone from the coaching staff yelled, so Shane put his phone away and finished getting dressed.
The Raiders were already doing their warm ups when the Metros got into the rink. Shane glanced around for a moment, memorizing the location of each member of both teams, then skated straight toward Rozanov. He was standing next to another Raider, Cliff Marleau; Rozanov looked over at Shane as he approached, eyes narrowed warily.
“Hey,” Shane said, “can I, uh, talk to you?”
“What is it Hollander, you want hockey tips for tonight’s game?” the Russian said with a small sneer. “Okay, what you do is hit small rubber circle into big net with stick. Presto! You are winner.”
“Fuck off,” Shane replied, more out of habit than anything else. “No, I just need to ask you something.”
Rozanov shrugged. “So ask me.”
“Can we…” Shane tilted his head toward Marleau. “Can we talk alone?”
“No,” Rozanov said stiffly. “You want to ask about my post? Yes, is real. Now go fuck yourself.”
“Jesus, Rozanov, I don’t have a problem with it!” Shane hissed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hayden skating toward them. “Look, can we please just talk alone?”
“He told you to fuck off, Hollander,” Marleau said. The big man skated forward a few feet, putting himself between Shane and the Raiders Captain.
“What do you want to talk about?” Rozanov asked over Marleau’s shoulder.
“CCM,” Shane said, just as Hayden arrived. “Fuck. Later,” he added, then turned before he could see Rozanov’s face. He grabbed his winger by the arm and dragged him away.
“What was that about?” Hayden asked as they skated back down the ice.
“Wishing them a good game,” Shane lied. “Captain shit. We’re gonna crush them.”
“Let’s fucking go!” Hayden crowed.
Boston didn’t put Rozanov in for the first period face offs. He cycled in, taking shifts, taking more hits than he should be. His team was wild, aggressively protecting him, but a couple of Shane’s teammates were Rozanov-seeking missiles, slamming him into the boards whether he had the puck or not. By the second period, Comeau and a couple of their other d-men were spending more time in the bin than on the ice, and Theriault’s face was bright red with anger. Boston was up by one, and Rozanov had assisted on both of their goals but hadn’t gotten close to the net himself. Finally, after yet another fucking whistle stop, Shane skated out to center ice to find himself face to face with Rozanov.
“Date me,” Shane whispered.
Rozanov’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Go on a date with me,” Shane said, just as the puck dropped. Rozanov’s mouth fell open, so Shane snatched the puck and took off. Rozanov recovered immediately, chasing after him. They scrambled for the puck for a moment, with Rozanov trying to steal it off Shane’s stick, before the other man slammed him into the wall.
“If you want me to fuck you, just say so,” Rozanov purred as he kept Shane trapped long enough for the refs to start yelling. He let go and pushed away before Shane could respond.
Shane focused on the puck instead of the way his blood felt hot in his veins.
In the third period he got his chance, with Rozanov pressed between Shane’s chest and the boards, their sticks smacking against each other with the puck underneath them. “I told you what I want,” Shane said, then the puck was his, and Rozanov was chasing him again.
After, when the Raiders had won 3-2 and Theriault had ordered Shane into the press room, they ended up seated next to each other. As the PR guys fiddled with their mics, Rozanov suddenly leaned over. “Stop messing with me,” Rozanov said bitterly. “Golden Boy should not be homophobe.”
Shane opened his mouth to object but the lights went on.
“Ilya!” someone shouted. “Is it true you’re gay?”
Shane kicked Rozanov’s foot under the table before he could answer. “Do you guys want to know anything about hockey?” Shane asked. He’d schooled his face into the serious press-trained Hollander look his mother had drilled into him since before his rookie season.
“Question for you then, Shane, do you think Rozanov coming out as gay will impact how you play against him in the future?”
“Well as I understand it,” Shane said, leaning forward slightly, “Rozanov actually came out as bisexual, not gay. There’s a difference.”
Next to him, Rozanov nodded, once.
The lights flashed again, making part of Shane’s brain react to loud and too much. He flinched, a movement so small probably no one would notice, but Rozanov tapped his foot under the table. The same reporter spoke up again before anyone else had a chance. Shane waited anxiously, hoping for one follow up question in particular. “Shane, you say there’s a difference, but as far as the league and fans are concerned, is there really?”
Got you. Shane smiled, slow and sharp. Next to him, he could see Rozanov narrowing his eyes. “Of course, Hazel, it is Hazel isn’t it? So as far as I understand it – and please, folks, correct me if I’m wrong, I’m still learning all this stuff,” which got a laugh out of some of the room, “a bisexual person like Rozanov is attracted to both same and opposite gender people.”
Rozanov shrugged. “Yes, is true,” he said, his accent thicker than usual.
“Right,” Shane said, interrupting to make sure he kept the focus on what he was about to say next, “and a gay person, like myself, is only attracted to a person of the same gender. But neither of those things have anything to do with me or Rozanov being some of the best players in the league.”
It took less than three seconds for the room to realize what Shane had said. It went eerily quiet, quieter than two dozen reporters had ever been. “Great,” Shane added, sitting back in his chair with his media-friendly smile plastered onto his face, “did anyone else want to ask about hockey?”
The Metros PR guy did three things in quick succession: he went pale, started coughing, then started yelling that the press conference was over. Shane was ushered out into the hallway. He made it a dozen steps before he collapsed against a wall. He felt so light he might float away.
“Hollander, what the fuck was that?” Rozanov growled.
Shane focused. Ilya Rozanov was standing in front of him, angry and glorious. His ocean-colored eyes were glistening, but his jaw was clenched.
“It was a press conference but I think it’s over now,” Shane said. A small laugh bubbled up out of his chest.
Rozanov’s game day suit was a deep charcoal color. It was more fitted than his suits had been in previous years, and showed off his body very well. The suit Shane wore was black, simple and classic. Off the rack, easier to not have to think about. Rozanov’s suit was probably tailored; Shane made a note to look into getting a tailor of his own. His mom knew someone, maybe. Or she could –
“Yes, ha ha, funny man. You told everyone you are gay, Hollander.”
Shane couldn’t stop staring at Rozanov’s lips. He’d been trying not to, had been telling himself not to for almost five years. They were perfect, pink, shaped like a bow with that deep v in the center. Shane had been so good at it, ignoring Rozanov’s lips. Now that he was letting himself look, he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be able to stop.
“Was that a question about hockey?” Shane joked weakly.
“You were serious?” Rozanov stepped closer. There was maybe two feet of space between them now, and Shane thought he might stop breathing. “You mean to do this?”
“Can’t take it back now,” Shane said shakily. “If I did it any other way, they’d try to make me take it back. My mom, the league, fuck, my team is gonna lose their shit.”
“Okay,” Rozanov said quietly. “Okay. Breathe, Hollander, will be fine. League cannot touch us now. We can be half-gay and super gay together.”
“That’s what I was hoping for.” Shane closed his eyes for a moment, trying to take a deep breath. Further down the hall, he heard raised voices arguing. They were getting closer, and he had the terrible feeling that they were coming for him. “Being together, I mean. Pretty sure I’m only regular gay though.”
“You really want this?” Rozanov whispered. “With me?” He looked different from how Shane had ever seen him before. There was a softness to his face, a tiny crease between his eyebrows.
Oh, he’s scared, Shane thought. He nodded. He had already finally been honest, so he had run out of reasons to stop now. “I’ve always wanted you,” he admitted. “Ever since -”
“Hollander!” someone shouted from down the hall. Theriault, probably.
“You know this club, Sky Complex?” Rozanov asked quickly.
“Complex Skye,” Shane corrected. “Yeah, it’s huge. I’ve never been inside but you can’t miss it.”
“One hour. Come find me,” Rozanov said. Before Shane could answer, he turned on his heel and strode away.
“Hollander, now!” Theriault shouted again.
“Yep, yep!” Shane called back. Time for actions to meet consequences.
. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊
The club was loud, even there in the VIP section. Clubs always were, but this place was enormous – a multi-level glass enclosed shrine to being young, hot, and queer – so the loud wasn’t just music. It was music and lights and the pull of the dance floor and there was no way a quiet guy like Hollander was going to step foot inside. Ilya sighed. It had been Marly’s idea to come here, before Hollander had outed himself. You’re out and proud now baby, his friend had declared. Let’s get you laid!
Ilya had said yes like an idiot. Sex cured a lot of problems, for an hour or two, and Ilya’s Twitter post had caused so many problems he was currently avoiding. But that was before. Before Shane fucking Hollander outed himself live on television to make it clear to Ilya that he wanted a date.
“You okay there, bro?” Connors asked. The shorter man had leaned over the table, practically yelling to be heard.
Ilya nodded. “We are not drunk enough for this place.”
“Fuck, I know that’s right!” Connors flagged down a passing waitress to order another bottle of champagne. Marly showed up as the waitress was leaving, with two gorgeous young twinks, one under each of his massive arms.
“These are for you,” Marly said, gently pushing them both toward Ilya like a cat bringing its owner a juicy mouse.
“I’m Ben,” the blond one said.
“Max,” the brunette said, pointing at his own chest. “We heard you were famous now.”
They were, objectively, very attractive men. Maybe a little younger than Ilya, who was halfway between 22 and 23, but not by much. The blond had hazel brown eyes, which Ilya usually liked, but they weren’t dark enough. The brunette was too pale, his skin too perfect. Freckles would look better, Ilya thought, then shook his head. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Come convince me why I should fuck you,” he added, gesturing to the space on either side of him. He was out now. Yes, it was stupid and reckless and he really shouldn’t have done it, but like Hollander said, they couldn’t take it back. He had blocked both his father and his brother on his phone. He was ignoring Sveta’s calls, but that probably wouldn’t last the week. There was no reason he couldn’t take one of these boys back to a hotel room. Both of them, if they wanted. He suspected they wouldn’t be hard to convince.
Well, there was one reason. But Hollander wasn’t here.
Until he was.
“Hey, you made it!” Sainty yelled.
Ilya had one arm around each of the guys Marly had found, with his tongue in the brunette’s mouth, so he didn’t notice when Hollander walked up, but suddenly the Canadian was standing next to the table. He’d lost his suit jacket somewhere between Centre Bell and the club, but he was still in a white button up shirt and black slacks that clung to his thick thighs. Seeing him, Ilya knew why the men in his arms felt too thin. They were ghosts compared to the way he had imagined Hollander would feel beneath him, with all the power and strength in those hard-earned muscles.
“Am I interrupting?” Hollander asked.
“I don’t know,” Ilya replied, forcing himself to relax against the back of the booth. The table was between him and the booth bench on the other side, but the space was large enough that Ilya’s whole body was on display from where Hollander stood. “Do you have a better offer?” He stretched his legs out in front of him, pushing his frame to look longer, leaner.
He watched Hollander’s gaze move down and back up again.
“I want to date you,” Hollander said. Again. Out loud, in public, where Ilya and half a dozen Raiders could hear him.
“Damn, Hollzy, that’s forward,” Connors said with a grin.
Marly laughed. “You could probably get him into bed without having to pay for dinner, no offense Rozy.”
Hollander rubbed the back of his neck before taking a deep breath. “I mean, yeah. I know I could. But I want a real shot. Date me, and let's see where it goes.”
Ilya barely registered that one of the twinks was licking the side of his neck. It was there, in the back of his mind, a little tickle of someone’s tongue working its way up to his earlobe. He could stand up right now, shake them off and pay for their drinks, then take Hollander back to his probably-fancy Montreal apartment. He could press Hollander against his kitchen counter, or push him onto the couch. Ilya could imagine wrestling Hollander underneath him, stripping him bare until those delicious muscles were shining in the light of whatever designer lamps Hollander probably had too many of.
“So serious, Hollander,” he teased instead. “You sound like you are proposing marriage.”
He regretted it as soon as he said it. Hollander was going to laugh. He was going to say no, of course not. Ilya was sitting in a loud as hell club, the kind of place Hollander never seemed to go, wrapped up in two men he’d only just met, a whore of a king on a throne of shame. Hollander was going to backpedal, announce Ilya was too much, and walk out onto the dance floor right now to find a dozen men who’d happily take him on a date before offering him mediocre sex and a scandal-free relationship that wouldn’t make his life harder than it was already.
“Eventually,” Hollander said instead. “I was thinking boyfriends first, then we can try living together if you want, we see how it goes. Maybe we can find a place together halfway between Montreal and Boston.”
Ilya’s dick was unbelievably hard. He carefully untangled himself from the two men sitting next to him. “Maybe we get dog too?” he asked sarcastically. It was too much to ask for, too much to hope for, to be said with the seriousness he actually felt.
“Sure,” Hollander said with a shrug. “I was thinking we’d get a cat to start with, but we can figure out how to make a dog work with our schedules.”
“He’s fucking with you!” Sebbin yelled. The Raiders d-man was tilting to one side, but so far had managed to stay upright despite having a drink in both hands. “Fucking Metros, man. They’ll do anything to throw you off your game.”
“You play hockey?” one of the twinks asked. Ben, maybe. The man lifted his hand, placing it on Ilya’s chest.
He gently picked it up and put it back on Ben’s own leg.
“He could prove it,” Marly yelled. “Like a, what do you call it, courtship thing?”
Connors was nodding. “Like Hercules?” They’d watched the animated movie a few weeks before, on another team flight to somewhere. “We come up with a challenge and he has to do it to prove he’s serious?”
“No, he doesn’t -” Ilya started to say, but Hollander said, “Okay,” at the same time.
“It has to be something good,” Sainty said loudly. “Something he wouldn’t do otherwise.”
“Hey, are we gonna do this or not?” the other twink asked. He was leaning away from Ilya now, looking between him and Hollander.
Hollander undid the buttons at his wrists. He started to roll up one sleeve and then the other, revealing his muscular forearms.
Ilya licked his bottom lip.
“Woah, Hollzy, you gonna fight for Rozy’s love?” Marly asked.
Hollander’s eyes widened. “What? No, that’s not…” He looked down at his sleeves. “It’s just hot in here.” His forehead was shining. Ilya wondered what he tasted like.
“No that’s good!” Connors said, shaking his finger at Hollander. “He’s gotta fight for you, Roz.”
“Hollander never fights,” Seb argued. “He’s the Lady. The most. You know. He won the Lady Byng last year, woo hoo!”
“That’s why it’s perfect,” Connors said. “If Hollander fights on the ice, we’ll know he’s doing it for love.”
“Okay, I like it,” Marly said. “How many fights?”
“You cannot make Hollander fight,” Ilya said, shaking his head.
“It has to be more than one, right?” Sainty said. “One fight could be anything. Ten fights, you know that’s on purpose.”
“Ten fights would get me benched,” Hollander said. “We have 31 games left in the regular season. I can’t drop my gloves in a third of them.”
“Five,” Carmichael said, the first time he’d spoken since Hollander walked up to their table. The others looked over at him. “That’s a sixth of the games you have over the next three months, right? So you could spread them out, probably wouldn’t be noticed.”
“You think no one will notice if Mr. Perfect gets into five fucking fights?” Ilya asked. He jerked his thumb toward Hollander. “This guy?”
“You think I’m perfect?” Hollander yelled back. He had been standing there, a little stiffly, the entire time, but after he’d rolled up his sleeves he’d hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his slacks. Ilya wanted to peel him like a tangerine, swallow him up and let the juice run down his chin.
“I think you are too Canadian Golden Boy to fight for me, Hollander,” Ilya said instead.
“All right,” Hollander replied. “Five fights. I get to pick who it is.”
“On ice,” Sainty said.
“On camera,” Marly said, tapping his own forehead. “Be smart about it.”
“Hollander is smarter than all of you put together,” Ilya said before he could stop himself from saying another thing he’d be embarrassed about later. But Hollander smiled again.
“On camera,” Hollander agreed. “When it’s done, you give us a real chance.”
“You want… what? Candles and romance?” Ilya rolled his eyes for his teammates, but he had goosebumps moving across his skin.
“I’ll take care of that part,” Hollander said. “You have to show up. Actually talk to me, you know? Not always making jokes.”
“I am very funny man.”
“Yeah,” Hollander said softly. Ilya didn’t hear the word, but he saw the shape of Hollander’s mouth as he said it. Louder, he added, “And when we’re dating, you can’t see anyone else.”
“I cannot be loyal, Hollander?” Ilya clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “You don’t think much of your future boyfriend.”
“I’m sure you can, I just don’t know if you want that, with me.” Hollander shrugged his shoulders, a small insecure movement.
Before Ilya could answer, one of the men sitting with him, the blond one, stood up. “I’m gonna go,” he yelled over the music. “I still have time to find someone who isn’t doing… whatever this is.” He stepped over Ilya’s legs, pausing to put one hand on Hollander’s shoulder and say something into his ear.
Hollander’s cheeks went pink.
“I’m cool with it,” the brunette, said. Ben. No, Max. “You can bring him too if you want,” he added, tilting his head toward Hollander.
“No, thank you,” Hollander said quickly. “I don’t share.” He looked around the table. “I have an early flight, so I’m gonna…” He waved one hand toward the exit. “I guess I’ll see you.”
“Good luck, man,” Carmichael called after him as he turned to go. Without looking back, Hollander raised a hand, waving goodbye.
“Damn, Roz, did you know about him?” Marly asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Did you know Hollzy was gay?”
Ilya shrugged. He had suspected it, the night in the gym, after the draft. Maybe before, when a cute hockey boy shook his hand twice and didn’t seem to want to let go. There was the moment in the shower though, after the ad shoot in Toronto – the moment he’d replayed in his head, over and over – when he’d misread Hollander’s interest so badly the other boy had run out the door before Ilya had a chance to apologize. Or, he thought he’d misread it, with the way Hollander disappeared from the locker room before Ilya finished rinsing off. Now, that memory felt different.
“No idea,” he lied.
“You think he’s actually going to do it?” Sebbin asked. He was losing his battle against gravity, so Connors slid closer to him, grabbing Seb’s shirt with one hand to pull him upright again. “Hollander never fights. It’s like… a thing,” he announced very seriously. “I love you man, but there’s no way.”
A couple of the other men groaned loudly at that. Marly had that look on his face that meant he was about to wax poetic on their Captain’s finer qualities, but Ilya didn’t have it in him to listen to an argument that might end with them all being convinced that he didn’t deserve Hollander’s time after all. Not tonight. Not after everything that led up to him coming out earlier that day.
“Enough about Hollander!” Ilya shouted. “Let’s dance!” So they found the dance floor, even Seb, who’d given up his two drinks in favor of wrapping his arms around Connors and Carmy to stay on his feet. The lights were bright, the music was loud, many people wanted to rub up against him in the dark, and if he closed his eyes Ilya could pretend that at least one of them was a shy Canadian man with freckles scattered across his cheeks.
For tonight, that had to be good enough.